


I Do Not Know You

by Zai42



Series: Like Colors, If Colors Hated Me [3]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Identity Issues, Organ Groping, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Voyeurism, Waltzing, flaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25168633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: Who are you, beneath all those faces? Who are you really? Do you even know?
Relationships: Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming)/Nikola Orsinov, Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming)/The Stranger
Series: Like Colors, If Colors Hated Me [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821226
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	I Do Not Know You

The stage is dazzling, ornate, almost but not quite at the point of being gaudy. Oscar stands in the center of it, head tilted against the bright spotlights, staring into an audience that appears stiff and unmoving, but from whom he can hear whispers, low laughter, bites of conversation.

There is movement in the wings, and he turns with his whole body to look, conscious of his audience. His dance partner pirouettes across the stage, and he can’t tell if she is elegant or clumsy, beautiful or horrifying. She leaves bloody footprints in her wake, smearing red across the perfect, gleaming hardwood. He extends an arm, accepts her porcelain hand in his, and they fall into a waltz.

He is out of step and can’t pin down why until he’s led into a spin, twirling dizzily before being dipped low - his partner is leading. He stares up into the blandly cheerful expression painted onto her porcelain face.

No. Not porcelain.

He’s wrenched up into another spin before he can focus too much on her face, and she is laughing. “Oh, _Oscar,”_ she says, tugging him close until they are cheek-to-cheek, warm skin against - against _something._ “Do you like my mask? I picked it out just for you. I know you have so many.”

Her voice is high and lilting; Oscar can hear faint applause from the audience behind him. She twists them around, stage lights smearing into a dizzying glow with her at the center, the only thing real and in focus. “I - ” Oscar says. Tries to say. His voice sticks.

She laughs, tittering and fake. “Who even _are_ you, beneath all those faces?”

Her hand, low on his back, has found its way beneath his layers of clothes to touch bare skin, and then it finds its way beneath that as well. Oscar cries out, slumps over onto her, shuddering as her small hand glides through slick muscles and viscera. He stares, wide-eyed, at the audience. They cheer wildly.

His partner hums, patting his hair with one hand as the other sinks between organs. “The real you _must_ be in here somewhere,” she croons. There is a thick squelching noise, and Oscar jolts in her arms, groaning. They’ve stopped twirling; now she only sways them both gently, humming to herself as she flays him open. “We’ll find it,” she promises, fingers questing deeper, deeper, touching unspeakable parts of Oscar’s internal workings, caressing his guts with a touch like a lover. “We’ll peel away all the artifice and wrap you up all clean and new! You’ll like that, won’t you?”

And somewhere, beneath all his masks, Oscar thinks he might.

**Author's Note:**

> Nikola Orsinov/menacing waltzes with Our Brave Hero is my truest OTP


End file.
